


Coals To A Primitive Fire

by SolitaryViolence



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Biting, Blood and Torture, Cheetah Virus (Doctor Who), Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, I'm so sorry seven, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Kink, Planet Destruction, Predator/Prey, Purple Prose, Rape, Self-Destruction, The Author Regrets Nothing, and syl for that matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryViolence/pseuds/SolitaryViolence
Summary: In the absence of speech, the moribund planet’s blustering winds seemed to roar louder than before, echoing the leonine screeches of its former inhabitants. The salmon-hued sky seemed to darken, matching the vivid colour seeping from the Doctor’s wounds.The Doctor swallowed. “I’m...” he got out, expending almost all of his strength to stop the disease taking control.“You’re what?” his combatant pressed on, not even a hint of humanity in his tone — or whatever the Gallifreyan equivalent of humanity was.“Yours,” the Doctor whispered, feeling the Master’s grip on his neck loosen. “Always.”
Relationships: Seventh Doctor/The Master (Ainley)
Kudos: 11





	Coals To A Primitive Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Do heed the archive warnings, tags, etc. unless you want to be unpleasantly (or perhaps pleasantly?) surprised. Posting this on a whim right now, so I might come back and edit it later, yada yada.
> 
> Writing this was oddly cathartic. I haven't been well at all lately, mentally speaking, and it probably shows. I wanted to write something so horrifying I scared even myself with its content, and this was the result. Enjoy! Or don't. Whatever floats your boat and all that.
> 
> Thanks for clicking 🖤

“You should’ve killed me, Doctor.”  
Like a dagger, those words so effortlessly rolled off the Master’s razor-edged tongue. Plunging deep into the Doctor’s chest, they brought to pass a pain bated yet wholly trenchant, one almost _oneiric_ — something he recognised well, yet couldn’t put a name to.

...Heartache?

The leather-clad hands wringing his neck somehow squeezed harder, as if intending to decapitate him at that very moment. Hoping to break their grip, he brought his own hands to the Master’s wrists but, this time, it was no use. With all haste and a gruff snarl, his ferine foe tackled him to the ground, mercilessly throwing onto him his full weight. As the back of the Doctor’s head hit the rough terrain with enough force to make him feel faint, he emitted a strangled, rasped cry.

He never thought he’d miss his previous self, all colour and curls and conceit. If nothing else, he might’ve had the size advantage.

Gingerly, he reopened his eyes, beholding his aeonian adversary’s aweless visage. The Master’s lips moved, revealing keen fangs that would make a vampire jealous, though his words were largely unintelligible to his unfortunate prey, who helplessly struggled in his hold. Weakly, the Doctor grappled at the hands crushing his trachea, feeling his racing hearts flutter as he stared up into those infected eyes.

Through and through, his friend was _gone_. Kos- — the _Master_ — had been utterly ravaged. One of the greatest minds the Doctor ever knew — his intellectual equal, even! — reduced to nought but a base desire to hunt and capture, to kill and to feast.

The Master always had harboured a certain _nostalgie de la boue_. And even whilst donning a decaying, dedifferentiated Trakenite form, he’d always been physically stronger than the Doctor. Always the domineering, dulcet-toned inveigler revelling in delectatio morosa, so hypnotically heinous and hellishly-

_When did I start seeing black?_ , the Doctor wondered all of a sudden.

Oh, now that was a problem! A crisis, even!

A sign of kismet’s impending arrival.

His strained respiratory bypass system couldn’t handle much more, tortured as it was. Though he could barely feel the hands wrapped so tightly around his neck, nor the agony of his starved lungs begging for air, that nagging, ever-spreading _ache_ in his chest only worsened with each passing millisecond.

Heartache, indubitably. Saudade. Melancholia. Hell, even a yearning to run and predate and regress niggled at the back of his once-brilliant mind. These enigmatic emotions assimilated, conglomerating into a singular sensation which lingered dully, even as he started to slip.

Drifting in and out of actuality, he finally gave up the fight. His consciousness faded, and five simple words echoed within:  
_“You should’ve killed me, Doctor.”_

In what seemed like but a fraction of a second, he awoke sensing another’s ragged breath against his skin. His head throbbed and his throat burned, though this much was rather difficult to focus on once he perceived a set of knifelike claws puncturing the tender skin of his abdomen, piercing right through the dermis.  
“ _Ma_...” he got out feebly, unable to prise open his heavy eyelids.  
“Say my name,” the Master commanded brusquely, growling the words like...

Like a rabid animal.

_Oh, my friend..._

“Say it!” he continued, digging his claws in deeper, earning from his half-conscious companion a pitiful yelp.  
“ _Master_!” the Doctor choked out hoarsely, a hundred minuscule little rocks beneath him digging into his (bare, he’d realised) back as he squirmed.  
At that, a breathy sound not unlike a cat’s purr escaped his assailant’s mouth. “I love,” the Master began, his other set of claws lightly tracing the right side of the Doctor’s face as those slate-grey irises steadily came into view, “when you say...”  
Unable to continue, his words diminished into heavy breaths as he kept carving, relishing each whimper elicited from his prey with all the gusto the Doctor would expect of him.  
“Please,” the Doctor breathed, his face contorted, “we’re goin’ to-”  
“Stay still,” the Master interposed. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”  
“Stop-”  
“I hear you!” he shouted, his talons so smoothly slipping through the skin of the Doctor’s wrist as he held his hands above his head. “Every thought. Don’t lie to me.”  
“Master, I c’n hel-”  
“This body,” he panted, his slit pupils roaming across his prey’s half-clad, struggling form. “I _want_ it.”  
“ _Agh_ , you don’t underst _and_!” the Doctor exclaimed through a groan.  
“No, _Doctor_ ,” the Master retorted, making one last cut, “I understand perfectly. Look.”  
“Wha...?”  
“ _Look_!” he repeated, grabbing a fistful of the Doctor’s hair to reposition his lolling head. “Look upon my work, dear Doctor, and despair.”  
Blurred though his vision was, the Doctor could make out the general pattern of those gashes. They were letters. Old High Gallifreyan letters.

Letters spelling out the word “Master”.

“Understand?”

In the absence of speech, the moribund planet’s blustering winds seemed to roar louder than before, echoing the leonine screeches of its former inhabitants. The salmon-hued sky seemed to darken, matching the vivid colour seeping from the Doctor’s wounds.

Not long passed before another agonised cry rent the air. One of the Master’s claws remained embedded within his prey’s flesh as he moved his hands to its neck, drawing a line of scarlet down its wrist and forearm in the process. It mewled and writhed like a mere kitling, impuissant to his power though it was, and he found it all too amusing.  
“What’s it mean?” he hissed, applying the slightest bit of pressure.  
The Doctor swallowed. “I’m…” he got out, expending almost all of his strength to stop the disease taking control.  
“You’re what?” his combatant pressed on, not even a hint of humanity in his tone — or whatever the Gallifreyan equivalent of humanity was.  
“Yours,” the Doctor whispered, feeling the Master’s grip on his neck loosen. “Always. Please- _ugh_!”  
With a grimace, he grunted as he was turned onto his mutilated stomach, smearing the rocks below a deep crimson. The Master wasted no time in making his intentions clear, for within seconds, those claws trailed down his back so teasingly slowly, drawing yet more blood and eliciting even more discordant caterwauls before their owner gradually withdrew them to paw at his lower garments.  
“Master,” he began, his hearts rate somehow increasing still as he scrambled to get away. “Master, don’t-”  
“ _Mine_ ,” was the only word to escape the Master’s lips as he pulled his prey back towards him with his hands on its hips. “Stay,” he ordered, his voice low and threatening.  
Alas, the more he struggled, the more discomfort the Doctor found himself in, from the abundance of dust and debris finding its way into his eyes, mouth, and open wounds to the Master’s now-protracted claws steadily flaying his body as he clumsily rid him of his checkered trousers.

The Doctor wanted to scream. The planet took the liberty for him. He felt the disease, now, festering within. He felt himself growing weaker, being torn apart so easily like a fly stripped of its wings. Soon, he’d be little more than an animal.

Just like Kos.

He made a fatuous attempt to dig his own claws into the ground as the Master’s dug into his sides, holding him in place. It all happened so fast he’d barely even time to blink.

Part of him believed the Master wouldn’t do this, at least not to him, no matter how much malice aforethought he fostered. Sure, the man had bent the definition of consent a few times too many, but not once had he ever violated-

When the Master entered him, the most excruciating pain flooded the Doctor’s being, besieging his already-overwhelmed senses and leaving him in spate. He wasn’t sure if he screamed. He might’ve whimpered. The sound the Master made, per contra, was something inherently otherworldly. Something between a chuckle and a growl like the rasping of a dying man, exposing to the ears his true self: the burnt, decaying husk of a body residing beneath his stolen silhouette.  
“Mine,” the Master said once more, with a hint of triumph in his distorted voice as he started to thrust. “ _Kitling_.”  
The Doctor said nothing coherent in response, his defenceless body close to breaking under the strain of this abuse. Each movement intensified the pain, and with each stabbing pang, the disease gained further mastery over him, whittling him down piece by piece. Against his better judgement, he committed most all his remaining force into simply surviving this brutal attack, clenching his teeth and squeezing shut his watery eyes. _Oh_ , was it a sight to behold! Unconsciously picking up his pace, the Master wrapped his arms around his prey’s bloodied torso, holding it close as it twitched and floundered with its pretence of defiance. All that mattered to him was the feeling of flesh on flesh, the all-encompassing heat hemming them in as areas of the planet’s surface combusted at random, and the knowledge that he had won. His hunt was successful. The quarry surrendered and here it is, subservient to his will and forever marked as his, as it should be. With every thrust, it released ear-splitting cries, though the surroundings’ screeches left them near-inaudible. A pity, really. He wanted to hear it plead for mercy. To have the satisfaction of perceiving its pathetic protests as he tortured it within an inch of its miserable life. Even now, he leaned in close, breathing and moaning into its ear, in the hope he would hear _something_ even vaguely articulate.

But there came no such thing. It simply mumbled and puled, its fingers curling around thin air in a vain attempt to regain some semblance of self-command.

On a whim, he bit into its shoulder, sinking his fangs as deep as they could go. Into the dermis, surely. Into the subcutaneous fat, perhaps. He didn’t much care. As long as his prey squalled and bled, he was beyond content. As long as it submit to his will, he was at ease. He tightened his jaw, biting down harder as the blood filled his mouth and spread across his tongue, bearing a certain piquancy.

In an odd way, it reminded him of his past. A past he was unaware of until now, yet a thought he paid little attention to before, like a stain of breath upon a mirror, it vacated his mind altogether.

All he could focus on was this wriggling little kitling in his arms - this sobbing, soporific servant of his, bleeding out while he savoured its flavour, claiming every last inch of its expiring being. Yet, still, he wanted to fuck it harder, to mangle it further, and to toy with it for longer. He wanted _more_!

And doing just so, he released his bite, delighting in the blood-curdling howl piercing through his eardrums as he smirked, letting his fangs cleave through the chunk of flesh in his mouth. It was then his prey’s eyes shot open, and from the moment he saw their colour — a gorgeous amber — he knew the planet had found its final mark.

The Doctor’s pained cries metamorphosed into breathy, animalistic grunts. The Master’s smirk grew wider as he only got rougher, the blood dripping from his lips as he chewed staining his beard. Or was it fur now? Who could tell? Not the Doctor, surely. He hurt too much to care, anyway. In all nine-hundred of his years, he’d never felt an agony quite so strong. Spectrox toxaemia paled in comparison to _this_. No, this burning, itching, stabbing, aching, throbbing sensation was beyond comparison! It left no part of him untouched, and though one side of him abhorred it, the other — the one gradually possessing him whole — wanted to feel every sickening sensation possible, and to luxuriate in the suffering. It wanted every frisson running through this maimed body to slit it open from within as its master had done before until every nerve and vessel was cut like the strings of a marionette, until all that remained was singed to the core like a wick so effortlessly snuffed out.

It wouldn’t be long now. The unfathomable, undulating mass of colours in his line of sight was ever so slowly blotting itself out, becoming benighted. He grew woozier with each drop of blood shed, unable to hold onto consciousness in extremis.

The assault continued even as the Doctor, or what was left of him, faded in and out of awareness. His master was relentless. Time had no sway — assuming it still existed — and with the end creeping closer, he resigned himself to his nemesis.

He wanted to run forever, through fields of vermilion and vistas of snow-topped mountains. Yet, each time he awoke, he found himself lying defeated on the tremulous ground of a doomed planet tearing itself apart from the inside, resting against the cool, sandy stone adorned by the bones of his predecessors. Unabating still was the pain inflicted, and as the world went black once again, he wondered if it would ever stop.

There was no greater torment than having no escape. No greater turmoil than being without a plan, unsure of what was to come. No greater anguish than dissonance.

He knew not when his master finished and came to rest beside him. They faced one another, the distance between them seeming wider than that of the galactic centre and its outermost edge, yet simultaneously far too narrow for comfort. As he pawed at his prey’s lacerated wrist, the Master felt its pulses slowing, steadily coming to a complete halt.

Once more, he grinned, taking in the scope of his work. He bore no hatred nor chagrin, for he knew, deep within, that he had won.

A pyrrhic victory, really, but a victory nonetheless.

Heaving a sigh, he let go of his lifeless companion and stared into the whirling sky above, all light in his plague-ridden eyes long since squandered.

For a while, he’d felt his body weakening, struggling to sustain itself in this environment. There came a point — several minutes or maybe even hours later, he wasn’t sure — when it simply couldn’t hang on any longer.

And so, he screamed. A familiar burning sensation jolted through every nerve ending, growing stronger by the second as his Trakenite form was torn from him, leaving him a shaking, shrivelled mass once more as he curled up into a ball beside his old friend’s corpse.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to endure the pain much longer. No, for fate made sure of that.


End file.
